Show Me How
by Undasque
Summary: She didn't want help—which was fine because she didn't have anyone she could rely on. There was no family and no friends—they'd moved on and had their own lives to live. She only wanted to be left alone,but fate had other plans for her. OOC, AH
1. The Theory of Evolution

**Disclaimer : (for fanfiction) All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended. I just play.  
**

 **Many thanks to twilightladies1 and GeezerWench. SMH was posted before, long time ago, and I decided to make some changes.**

Chapter 1

 **The Theory of Evolution**

It's been more than a year since Isabella was all alone. The money from the insurance policy was big but not big enough. The thought of investing it didn't resurface in Isabella's depressed mind. It was the bills that made her get up, take a shower, get dressed, and attempt to try and find a job.

She looked in the mirror and she didn't recognize her reflection. Was it possible to change so much? For God's sake, it's ludicrous when you're twenty-six and you look like an elderly woman. But this thought disappeared as fast as it appeared in Isabella's mind. She didn't care about her appearance anymore. She turned her focus to more important things. Where should she start looking for a job? She was lost. She didn't even know where to start. She didn't know anybody, and these days when she left, it was only to go to the grocery store. What do you do when you know nobody in the city? When you only know where the grocery shop is, where do you look for a job?

Isabella slammed the door and straightened the strap on her purse before she placed it on her shoulder. The bag was dangling dolefully in hopeless Isabella style.

Her faded jeans would have set off her legs nicely but since she had lost weight they were too big for her. Her blouse matched the jeans but there was a large stain on the front, its origin greasy, but unknown. Had Isabella noticed it, she still wouldn't have cared.

Isabella hadn't noticed it, and if she did, she would have thought that it didn't matter. She completed her dowdy styling with dirty cowboy boots that she loved. She used them all the time and often refused to take the boots off, even at home.

Isabella, even if she graduated, had no experience as an employee. Firstly, she'd been studying, then she was looking after her sick dad for some time, and then she became a married woman. Then she was left alone where she found substance in a bottle. She spent the years crying and fighting her hangovers.

She didn't want help—which was fine because she didn't have anyone she could rely on. There was no family and no friends—they'd moved on and had their own lives to live. Jacob would've helped her, but he'd been mad at her for a long time, and she was sure he didn't even think about her anymore. She'd met Angela long time ago, and Angela had said Jake had his own family and was fighting hard to feed his wife and children since Forks was becoming a ghost town. Damned crises everywhere.

These thoughts turned to her father's house in Forks. She imagined it sitting there derelict, especially when she thought of the cold winters that hit Forks. She imagined the rotten door and mold on the walls. That vision brought Poe's _The Fall of the House of Usher_ to her mind and she wanted to reread it for a second time, but she couldn't remember the last time she read something that wasn't a canned soup recipe. She then considered the sale of the house in Forks but she chased that thought away as always. The sale of Charlie's house was like a sacrilege and it meant a ton of problems and a lot of things she couldn't deal with at the moment. She knew the hassle well—after all she'd sold her husband's house. And selling Charlie's house meant a journey to Forks. She froze and shivered at that idea.

'Are you ok?' asked a woman with concern on her face.

Isabella blinked, looked around, and realized she didn't recognize the area. Was it possible that she walked pensively so far from her neighborhood? She began to panic, but she suppressed the feeling when she remembered that someone had just asked her a question.

She looked at the person and was met with a concerned, young-looking face with warm green eyes—the tiny crow's feet around her eyes were the only evidence of her old age. She was surprised that her instinct for self-preservation didn't force her to run, and that she wanted, really wanted, to answer.

The words died in her throat. Whose theory assumed that disused organs weakened and deteriorated? Was it Darwin's or Spencer's? She couldn't remember but she knew she'd heard about it before. She strained her memory unsuccessfully. She thought that her brain had died, too, and she felt some kind of astonished pride because of this sarcastic thought. She chuckled slightly but it sounded like wheezing.

'Are you okay?' repeated the woman, frowning and looking into Isabella's eyes attentively. 'Are you hungry?'

Isabella froze and her eyes widened as she understood the tone of the woman's question. What the fuck? Did she look like a homeless person? She took a good look at herself and her irritation morphed into embarrassment. Yeah, she looked homeless. She knew that her pants were too large, she wore a stained blouse, old shoes, and her hair desperately needed to be cut. Her face? Isabella saw it in the mirror that morning—yellow and skinny, with sunken cheeks, and dark circles under her eyes. Isabella blushed and made a heroic effort to speak out loud.

'No. I'm not hungry … I'm not homeless, it's just that I haven't been out for a long time. I think I'm lost. I haven't talked to someone for so long … I'm sorry,' she blurted. She hastily turned away and started walking in the opposite direction, ashamed at the whole situation. She quickened the pace, desperately wanting to run. _Yeah, job hunting can wait,_ she thought, shaking her head at her lack of conforming to the social norms.

Suddenly, she felt a hand on her shoulder and she jumped slightly, trying to recall all the self-defense moves Charlie had shown her, and all the things that her husband had kept telling her to do in case he was away. It was useless. Even her instinct for self-preservation was not working. _I'm a wreck,_ she thought in despair. She didn't even turn around, she just lowered her head and waited for whatever would come next.

'Wait, please. I didn't mean to offend you,' said the kind voice, and Isabella recognized it as belonging to the woman she had just met.

She turned around and saw that the woman, who wouldn't leave her alone, looked at her with a friendly smile on her face as she reached out a hand in greeting.

'I'm sorry, I was simply concerned. I didn't mean anything bad, please believe me. Let's start again, shall we? My name is Esme Cullen,' she said nicely.

Isabella was looking at the woman's—Esme's—hand and considered two options. Running was as tempting as a freshly made bed. Or she could stay, but that option was scary. She bit her lip, and with some hesitation, held out her own hand, following some absurd and incomprehensible impulse.

'I'm Bella. Bella Whitlock.'

 **Thank you. Drop me a line.**


	2. The Ash

**Disclaimer : All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended. I just play.  
**

 **My heart goes to twilightladies1 and GeezerWench.  
**

 **Chapter 2**

 **The Ash**

Later that day, Isabella sat on the sofa analyzing everything that had happened that day. Instead of finding a job like she had originally planned, she had met Esme, a nice older lady that bought her coffee. It was too much excitement for one morning, and Isabella had difficulty processing every thought that had been passing through her mind. _"It's impossible_ ," she repeated over and over. " _I did it. I talked to someone_."

She felt pride and some vague satisfaction as unused muscles in her face allowed her to smile faintly. The feeling didn't last long. Excitement and a guarded joy from the passing day morphed into stabbing and burning guilt once she realized that she had forgotten about her loss, mourning, and despair.

Isabella stood up and went into the small kitchen. Drinking some coffee in the evening wasn't a good idea but she had no need to wake up early.

She shrugged and decided if she were to find a job later then she'd need to sort herself out, and that meant she needed to go to the hairdresser and get a much needed haircut. She didn't want to look like a homeless person so it needed to be done, but later. Someday in the future, but not today or tomorrow.

She wandered back into the living room, plopped onto the sofa, and decided she'd allow herself to do something unhealthy and unreasonable. She took a pack of cigarettes out of the box that sat under the small table next to the sofa. Her husband had hated it when she smoked. He'd never said it out loud, but he used to show his disapproval with his attitude. Since she felt guilty anyway, it didn't make a difference. She decided that another weight on her conscience wouldn't matter much. She lit the cigarette, inhaled the calming smoke deeply, and closed her eyes.

" _I'm Bella. Bella Whitlock," she said to the woman._

 _Not introducing oneself to someone who just said their name is rude. Esme's handshake was confident and tight._

" _Nice to meet you, Miss Whitlock," Esme smiled softly. "Can I buy you some coffee to apologize?" she asked._

 _Isabella bit her lower lip and looked peered up at Esme. The woman was still smiling invitingly. But stubborn Isabella's throat didn't want to let her voice go._

" _If you're in a hurry, I'll understand. I just feel stupid that I judged you rashly. I'd like to smooth over that unpleasant impression," Esme added quickly._

 _Isabella took a deep breath. "I'd love to… But I'd rather do it… outside," she said._

 _She felt ashamed of her slovenly look suddenly, and she couldn't imagine herself entering some coffee house._

 _Isabella glanced down at her clothes meaningfully. Esme nodded in understanding, still smiling softly. Although Isabella found the smile partly irritating, she was also curious about this woman._

 _Isabella grimaced._

" _And it's Mrs. Whitlock, not miss. I prefer Bella."_

" _Let's go then, Bella." Esme's eyes glistened with astonishment and interest. "Latte to go?"_

 _Once they had their drinks, they moved to sit on a nearby park bench. Isabella's hands were wrapped tightly around the cup to try and warm her hands. She was silent because she didn't know what to say, and she wondered how to extricate herself from this… act of socialization. "I'll tell her that I'm in a mad rush," she thought._

" _I've noticed that you're feeling uneasy here." Esme's voice, although quiet, still shocked Isabella and she jumped, spilling some of her warm beverage._

 _When met with silence, Esme continued, "I understand. We don't have to talk, if you don't want to. Let's just enjoy our coffee," she added._

 _Isabella forgot about being Isabella and looked Esme in the eye._

" _No, we can talk … but I don't know… about what._ _…_ _I'm not used to talking… I haven't done it for so long and…" Isabella muttered and lowered her eyes to her trembling fingers that had a death grip on the thick cardboard cup._

" _Done what?" asked Esme._

" _This…" Isabella pointed at herself, at Esme and the park. "I haven't talked to someone… for so long."_

" _How long?" Esme had a different question on the tip of her tongue but she didn't want to scare Bella away. "I'm sorry, you don't have to tell me."_

" _It's been a year. More than a year." Isabella said, muttering. She took a sip of coffee. It was too sweet and too hot—it nauseated her._

 _The conversation was heavy going. Although it was strange, the silence wasn't burdening them even though Esme was scared to ask all of the questions that she wanted to, and Isabella had no idea what to say. Isabella quickly finished her coffee and decided it was time to go home._

 _Esme followed her movements in a sudden attack of anxiety. It shouldn't end that way. It couldn't be that Isabella was to go her own way, and Esme wouldn't see her again, she couldn't let that happen. Esme saw Alice in Isabella and that thought hurt like a bitch._

" _Bella, wait. Please? I know this is going to sound weird, and you'll probably think I'm strange for suggesting it. I can't explain why, but I'd really like to do this again sometime, and I'd really like it if you came to my house for dinner in the future. Please?" She looked at Bella, unease written on her face and she chuckled lightly. "You can even meet my husband and my sons. Then you'll see that I'm not some weird psycho stalker."_

 _Isabella was scared due to the intensity of Esme's speech. She backed away from Esme but she couldn't bring herself to say no. Not because of her innate kindness or politeness. Not because of her manners. There was something desperate in Esme's outburst, something that told Isabella to make a decision immediately._

" _Okay," she said shyly._

" _How about I take your number and we can organize something?" Esme asked, a relieved expression on her face._

" _I don't have a telephone," Isabella said, ashamed yet again. Lack of phone is like a lack of… hand or leg. It was a disability in the 21st century._

" _Umm…Okay. Why don't you meet me here the day after tomorrow at six o'clock?" Esme asked quickly, eager to confirm a definite time they could meet. Isabella nodded hesitantly and Esme grinned. "Perfect, I'll be waiting just here for you. See you soon, Isabella."_

 _Esme reached out, looking to shake Isabella's hand, but the abrupt movement seemed to frighten the girl. At the last moment, she primped her hair._

" _Sure," said Isabella quietly._

Isabella stubbed out the cigarette and started to brush the ash off of the table. Any delighted feelings Bella had faded as she tidied up. She could admit it felt good being outside and having someone to talk to. But then, alone in her house, the feelings of remorse and shame washed over her. Everything was back to normal. She turned off the lights and went into the bedroom.

If she had unrolled the blinds she would have spotted the silhouette of someone on the outside.

Someone who kept an eye on her house.

 **Thank you.**


	3. The Visitors

**Disclaimer : All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended. I just play.  
**

 **My thanks to twilightladies1. GeezerWench, the Queen of Betas, made it better - you should see it, so much redness...lol.  
**

 **Chapter 3**

 **The Visitors**

Anticipation reigned in Esme's house on the morning of Bella's visit. The homemaker bustled about the kitchen, minding the oven and polishing the cutlery.

She had mixed emotions about the upcoming evening. She was excited about Bella's visit, but there was also some doubt and fear niggling in her gut.

"Edward, please remember about the dinner tonight," she said to the young man who passed by the kitchen door.

He let out a disdainful sigh, but he didn't say anything. It was the opposite of what his mother expected.

"I'll try," he muttered in reply.

He knew he was lying. He knew he was _not_ going to try.

He wouldn't be at the house that night.

He could always hope for an emergency, an accident or an earthquake, at least. If not, he was going to do all he could to avoid that stupid meeting with Esme's latest altruistic project.

Yes, Edward considered Isabella a beyond useless being. He considered her a person who wrapped Esme's kind heart and good intentions around her finger. A person who tried to use his mother and the Cullens. Edward wondered about speaking with his father to suggest that Esme needed a psychiatric consultation. Disrupting his day, _cooking,_ and making Carlisle change his shift in a hospital would never do. And her babbling that she could see Alice in Isabella … Esme was not well, that much was clear.

The man sighed again and put on his coat. It had been a hard day for him. He'd had to assist in Aro's surgery and that man was a complete asshole. He was lying in wait for Carlisle's son to make a mistake, no matter how small of a slip it might be.

"Bullshit," Edward thought as he got in the car. He wasn't worried about Aro, he was worried that he lied to his mother, and he hated it.

In the meantime, Esme had burned dinner. She thought it was the last thing that could top off a stressful day. She had spent the day running around, arranging what she thought was a grand feast. She'd visited the grocery store and also made a stop at the florist. Of course, when she answered the phone and her son gave her a shitty excuse for not attending her dinner party, she nearly exploded in fury.

"Edward Anthony Cullen, if you don't drag your bony backside home right now, I will make your life a living hell, I _swear_ ," she seethed. "You will come home this instant, you will change your clothes, and you will enjoy dinner, or damn me to hell!" she shouted into the receiver. Without giving her son a chance to reply, she hung up the phone.

Edward stood there frozen, gaping at the phone in utter shock. He couldn't believe what had just happened. It was the first time his mother had ever spoken to him in that manner – and he had given her lots plenty of opportunities. He grimaced as he put his phone back in his pocket. He was going to dinner and it looked like it was going to be one _hell_ of an evening.

When he arrived home, he met Esme in the driveway. She smiled to him apologetically when he approached to kiss her cheek.

"Freshen up and don't eat before dinner, please. I'm going to collect Isabella. Your father should be home in a minute," she said. "I'm sorry I yelled," she added.

"It's okay," he replied. "Drive safe."

He walked into the house and ran upstairs, irritated. While showering, he dreamt about being somewhere else. He couldn't believe he was being forced into this spectacle. He could think of a hundred different places he'd rather be tonight.

Emmett and Rosalie had it so easy. They managed to wriggle out of the dinner thanks to Rosalie's pregnancy. When she wanted to avoid something, she usually suddenly fell ill, using her morning sickness as an excuse.

Edward cursed; the day was going to be as bad as he first predicted in the morning.

Instead of playing happy family, Edward could have been with his friends. By that time he would be at some bar, well on his way to getting happily hammered, and he knew by the end of the night he would be screwing some girl in the store room.

But no.

The damn stray appeared and Esme expected everyone to jump for joy about it, but Edward didn't intend to jump at all.

When he went downstairs, he saw that his father had arrived home from work and was already sitting in his study, nursing a small drink. Edward supposed he was making the most of the peace and quiet before his mother arrived home with the waif.

Isabella couldn't find a place for herself all day long. She went to the hairdressing salon nearby and had her hair cut. She then critically judged all four blouses she owned, wondering which she should wear. She considered buying a new one, but her common sense took over. She chose the best of the lot and added black skinny jeans. She didn't have to choose between boots since she only owned one pair.

She arrived at the meeting place. As soon as she realized that she was early, she thought about running away. Yes, she could feel she was going to chicken out. It would have been easy. Esme wouldn't have found her and Isabella could have avoided the area where they'd met.

When she finally decided that she was going to go home, she spotted the parked car and Esme waved at her.

"Bella, you're here! I was worried that you wouldn't come. Please get in, I'm not allowed to park here." Esme chuckled, and Isabella could have sworn that she almost looked tipsy.

Esme pulled away from the curb quickly and clasped the steering wheel with her trembling hands. She glanced at Isabella, who looked like a frightened child.

An awkward silence filled the car as they made their way to Esme's home. Neither woman knew what to talk about—Isabella even less so since she had spent so little time with company.

Finally, after what felt like an age, Esme broke the silence. "You look well," she said.

Isabella had nothing to say, so she shrugged.

When the car stopped in the driveway of a big house, Isabella could feel her heart pounding and she wiped her sweaty palms on her pants. She opened the passenger door and climbed out, encouraged by Esme's nod. The gravel crunched under the soles of her cowboy boots, and she realized the inevitability of the situation. She felt her knees go weak and a blush heated her face.

"Let's go."

To her surprise, Isabella noticed Esme tried to walk arm in arm with her and she allowed it. Her legs, which were shaking like a leaf, weren't stable enough without support.

They went up the stairs to the front door and Esme opened it with a graceful motion.

Isabella was a nervous wreck. She didn't know what to do with herself. After a small gesture from Esme that she should enter first, she crossed the doorstep and found herself in the spacious foyer of the Cullen House.

"This is Carlisle, my husband, and Edward, my oldest son. Carlisle and Edward, I have the honor of introducing you to Mrs. Isabella Whitlock."

"Hi," Isabella mumbled quietly.

She could feel two pair of eyes fixed on her face. The blue ones belonged to the man who was Esme's husband. He looked at her in a friendly manner although Bella could see a hint of curiosity and some concern. The man seemed nice and trustworthy. He had dark hair and a very handsome face. The green-eyed son glared at her with hatred and disgust. An angry wrinkle cut across his forehead, and jeeringly distorted lips ruined the rest of his perfect features.

Isabella wanted to say something but she couldn't find any words.

"Mrs. Whitlock, it's a pleasure to meet you." Edward's tone told Isabella that it definitely _wasn't_ a pleasure to meet her. "Will Mr. Whitlock be joining us?"

The pain in Isabella's heart cut like a knife. She wrapped her arms around herself as she felt tears forming in her eyes. Anxiously, Esme took a hold of Isabella's hand.

"Edward, shame on you," she barked.

"Isabella, please don't pay attention to him. Nice to meet you," Carlisle said. "Would you like a drink before dinner?"

Isabella shook her head and took a step back. She looked at Esme imploringly.

"I can't … I … Thank you for inviting me, but I'd rather go…" she mumbled, desperately trying to stop the tears that wanted to break forth and stream down her gaunt cheeks.

"Absurd. Let's go to the dining room. Carlisle, pour us something to drink, please. Dinner in fifteen minutes." Esme decided to take it all upon herself when she saw that her perfectly planned evening started to resemble some ghastly farce.

Edward quietly observed as his mother led the obvious vagabond into the dining room and his father went for the drinks cabinet.

It was idiotic. Moronic. What had he said that made Esme shout at him like a teenager for the second time that day? He just asked about the ragamuffin's husband, goddamnit.

Isabella looked as if she was going to fall or burst into tears.

Ignoring the clearly unkempt woman, Edward strode into the dining room. He fought the urge to groan out loud when he saw his mother had chosen his seat for him and he would be spending the evening sitting across from a homeless person. Fantastic.

He sat down and looked blankly at Isabella. She lowered her head, and all he saw was a curtain of brown hair. She wrapped her hands around the glass. He noticed that she wasn't going to drink whatever Carlisle had made for her.

Then he thought that he liked her hair. It was long and shiny. Very much like satin. The rich chestnut color…

The vagrant was strangely beautiful.

Catching himself, he chased the unwelcome thoughts away.

Esme brought the food in and Edward thought it looked to be catered, but he kept his mouth shut. His mother wasn't a good cook. To be more precise, she _hated_ to cook.

Isabella put just a little food on her plate.

Surprised, Edward thought she looked as though she was starving and would have a better appetite.

"Bella, what did you do yesterday?" Esme asked politely, attempting to establish a conversation.

There was only the rattle of cutlery for a moment. Isabella sighed resignedly and put her fork down.

"Nothing much really. I just went to the hairdresser." She took a mouthful of her dinner before she continued. "Oh, and I bought a cell phone. I figured it was silly not to have one in this day and age. And it could be useful when …" She trailed off at the end, realizing that she might be inadvertently inviting Esme into contacting her again.

"What? When Esme has some leftovers for you? Or maybe next time she'll take you out for dinner? Or shopping? Then you can really take advantage of her good nature?" Edward leaned over the table, seething at the undesirable guest and the fact she had the audacity to make it known that she would be contacting Esme again.

"Edward, that's enough!" Carlisle spoke sharply. "Bella's our guest, so if you don't want to respect that, please leave."

Edward irritably wiped his mouth with a napkin and stood up hastily from his chair.

"Thank you for dinner. It was lovely. Mrs. Whitlock, I hope we never meet again," he said with a sneer and left, slamming the door.

After making his escape, Edward wondered what to do for awhile. He didn't like that he felt discomfort from his uncultured behavior instead of satisfaction. But on the other hand, he didn't owe Mrs. Whitlock anything. Even if she was beautiful in her own twisted way, she annoyed him. Under different circumstances, he would have been more than interested. But not after having his mother shove the woman in their faces. He decided to go to the bar across from the hospital. Hell, the evening was still early.

It seemed to Isabella that she had started to hold her breath three minutes before when Edward offered her some leftovers. She tried to fight the tears by holding her breath, and that was too much. Too much.

"Bella, I'm sorry. I don't know what's wrong with him," Esme said. "I wish my younger son, Emmett, were here but his wife is pregnant and…" she stopped talking, when Isabella burst into tears.

Yeah, it _was_ too much. Carlisle offered her his handkerchief politely but she brushed his hand away, got up from the chair, and tightened her hand on her mouth. Esme showed her way to the bathroom.

Isabella made it just in time. Seconds after she locked the bathroom door, she emptied the contents of her stomach into the toilet. The night had been one big disaster. She had one clear thought in her head – getting out of that house. She washed her face and dried it with toilet paper as she didn't dare touch the snow-white towel that hung next to the sink. She just stood there for a while as she calmed down, her forehead against the cold glass of the mirror. Once she felt composed enough, she returned to the dining room.

After telling Esme that she felt a little ill, she asked if Esme could drive her home. Carlisle said goodbye to her and for a moment she thought that he looked like he wanted to hug her.

They drove in silence. Isabella told Esme her address, and then she turned to stare out the window.

When they parked, Isabella took a risk and peeked at Esme. The woman was sad and anxious. It seemed like she wanted to say something but she was biting her lips like Bella often did. Isabella shook her head and reached into her pocket. She pulled the creased piece of paper with the telephone number out and gave it to Esme. Esme smiled as if the piece of paper was the best Christmas gift ever and nodded thankfully.

Isabella then fled to her apartment. She didn't undress and she didn't even turn the lights on. She sat on the floor, leaning against the bed. She didn't think. She didn't cry. She just sat there.

When she finally got up and started to walk her small bathroom, she heard a knock at the front door.

 **A/n Thank you for reading. Please drop me a line.**


	4. The Differences

**Disclaimer : All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.  
**

 **My thanks to twilightladies1. GeezerWench, I'm forever in debt for your hard work.**

 **Chapter 4**

 **The Differences**

After driving Isabella home, Esme headed straight back to the Cullen house. The slip of paper with Isabella's number burned a hole in Esme's pocket on the journey home. Every once in a while she'd touch it just to make sure it was still there. It was tangible proof that Isabella was real and that she wanted to stay in touch.

Dinner hadn't gone as planned. As Esme replayed the night's events, she felt nothing but embarrassment and shame. Edward's manners had been so unlike him, and she viewed his boorishness and uncultured behavior toward Isabella as an attack on herself. She knew Edward wasn't angry at Isabella—he was angry at Esme because she dared to mention Alice.

Beautiful, dear Alice.

He attacked an innocent girl because he didn't dare to attack his own mother. The issue of Alice always seemed to throw him off balance. Esme sighed out loud. Mothers always found ways to justify their children, right?

Once home, she went straight for Carlisle's study where she knew he would be thinking. She knocked lightly on the door and went in even though she was met with silence. She found Carlisle sitting on the sofa with a drink in his hand, his eyes closed, and his head reclined. The only light in the room was coming from the small fire, making the shadows appear to dance across the walls. Esme sat down next to him and he opened his eyes slowly to meet Esme's gaze, his eyes full of concern. He wrapped his arms around her and kissed her gently.

"I'm worried about you," he said. "Are you ok?"

Esme didn't answer, she shook her head instead. They sat in silence for a while, looking at the multicolored flames flickering in the fireplace.

"I checked her out," Carlisle whispered.

Esme started and looked at her husband like she didn't know who and what he was talking about. Confusion and unanswered questions flashed in her eyes. She felt her heart go heavy with fear as her breath quickened.

"Who?" she asked, even though she knew the answer.

"Isabella," Carlisle answered.

Esme frowned and took a deep breath. She felt like she could burst. As she opened her mouth to say something, Carlisle raised his hands up in defense. He looked into her eyes and smiled sadly.

"It's not like that, I swear. I didn't do this… _that way_. I just…" Carlisle took a deep breath before carrying on. "Look, I liked her and I was curious as to why she's acting…like _that_. Haven't you noticed how she acted when Edward mentioned her husband? Or when she burst into tears when you told her about Rosalie and her pregnancy?" he asked.

"I know, I know. I just…" Esme had absolutely no idea what to say. She'd noticed that Isabella struggled with personal pain but she didn't dare to mention it directly.

"I didn't do anything terrible. I didn't hire anyone, for Christ's sake. Don't look at me like that. I googled her."

"Googled?" Esme was surprised by the simplicity of this solution.

"Yes," Carlisle answered as he combed his hair with his hand—a habit that indicated his nervousness— a trait that Esme noticed had been passed to Edward.

"What do you know? Is she sick? Is she a victim? A drug addict?" Esme asked impatiently.

"Esme, honey…"

"What do you _know_?" Esme grabbed her husband sleeve and tugged at it hard.

"Not much. I found a few articles from small local newspapers, mostly from Galveston Daily News. They contained information about her husband, she was just mentioned in passing," Carlisle explained.

"Her husband?" Esme asked, confused.

"Yes. The articles I found were all about his funeral."

xxx

Isabella jumped at the sound of someone knocking. Ąt first she thought it was Esme, but she didn't know which apartment was Isabella's. If it was her, then why? Who else could it have been? The janitor? No, it was too late for him.

The knocking repeated. This time more aggressively.

Isabella tiptoed towards the door and stood still for a while, listening. Her instinct for self-preservation was dead because she turned the key in the lock and opened the door. When her eyes found the visitor, she felt the blood drain from her face. She took a step back and raised her hands to her mouth.

"Hello, sugar. Aren't you gonna invite me in?" the visitor leaned against the wooden doorframe. He was looking at her through squinted eyes. His lips were distorted in a strange smirk as if he was pleased with himself and completely at ease.

"Jasper? What …What are you doing here?" Isabella asked. Her voice sounded detached, almost unnatural. It only took her a few seconds to get a grip on herself. But then there was a buzzing, like there was a problem with her hearing. Then she started seeing black dots spinning and swirling through the air.

Something was wrong.

She forgot to breathe, just like she did this evening at Esme's.

"Isabella, look at me. Breathe. Calm the fuck down, I won't hurt you." Jasper crossed the doorstep, grabbed her arms and shook her firmly.

He was looking at her in disbelief, but without emotions—he looked at her like he was looking at some scientific experiment.

Isabella opened her eyes and freed herself from Jasper's grip. She walked to the sofa and sat down. She risked a look at the man who was towering over her. He looked different than he had before when she'd last seen him. God, when was that? She counted in her mind. A year and a half ago. His blond hair was longer, hanging to his jaw line, curling slightly. His silhouette seemed to be higher and heavier. Isabella realized at last what the reason was for the difference. There wasn't a trace of a smile on his face. And Jasper always smiled. _Always_. And his eyes? Isabella made a furtive glance. It was a mistake.

 _Peter._

 _Oh, God, Peter._

"I'm not Peter. Have you lost your mind?"

Jasper's eyes flashed with irritation and concern, the very first real emotion Isabella had seen. He was studying Isabella and his mind boggled at how low she'd sunk in the past year. Sitting before him was a mere shadow of Isabella Whitlock—of the woman that had been loved by the whole fucking town. The woman who had been known as whole-hearted and witty. The woman that had been beautiful and proud. The woman his brother had been infatuated with. The one his brother had loved more than anything in the world.

The woman who ruined it all.

Isabella, surprised and confused, realized she must have spoken out loud. She flushed crimson and cursed. Then she straightened her spine, feeling the sudden wave of anger.

"How the hell did you find me?" Her hoarse voice cut through the silence.

Jasper laughed bitterly, but there was some pride in his laugh. He shoved the well-worn armchair closer until he sat across from Isabella. They were separated only by the small table. The man leaned his elbows on his thighs and turned toward her. His look was cold, his face blank.

Isabella reached under the table to take the pack of hidden cigarettes in sudden anxiety. She took one, and her motions were nervous when she couldn't find a lighter.

"Here." Jasper reached into his jeans pocket and passed her a light.

Always such a Southern gentleman. "The genes don't lie," she thought.

"Thanks." Isabella inhaled deeply, holding back the coughing fit with her strong will. "I asked earlier and you didn't answer. How did you find me?"

"It was rather easy. Took my man a little over a week," Jasper answered, spreading out in the armchair comfortably. "You rented or bought the flat with your own name and the day before yesterday you entered into an agreement with AT&T. Stupid move for someone who wants to remain undercover. I would use the pre-paid. But I've known your location for some time."

"Why now? Why you did you decide to find me _now_? Why not a year ago?" Isabella asked. She couldn't understand his sudden interest. She flicked the ash from the cigarette on the table.

"Don't you have an ashtray?" Jasper furrowed his eyebrows, disgusted.

"No, I don't. I rarely smoke," Isabella answered, angry at herself for explaining. "It's not your business."

Jasper ignored her statement. He stood up a little from the armchair and pushed a small plate nearer Isabella. He sat down again and titled his head.

"Let's say that I was…busy this year," he said. "Besides, I promised Charlotte that I'd find you, and I keep my promises—unlike _you_ , Isabella."

"Charlotte?" Isabella gasped out loud. "You didn't tell her, where I was? Is she here with you? Tell me she isn't. Please tell me that…" Her words rushed together as the name from her past caused her heart to clench in panic.

"Isabella. Isabella!" Jasper yelled to cut through her pleas. "She's not here."

The thought of Charlotte made Isabella freeze like the cold air of Forks. Their relationship had always been tense. Proud, haughty Charlotte always stated Isabella was nothing more than a gold-digger—that she only wanted the old family money of the Whitlocks. Added to the list of Isabella's shortcomings, Charlotte concluded that Isabella was a northerner, who made the decision that she and Peter move away to the far side of the state. She could stand up to her husband, and she could win Peter over to her side. Charlotte never forgave her daughter-in-law for taking her son away.

Isabella knew it so well.

She stubbed out the cigarette and composed herself before she returned her attention to Jasper.

"What do you want?" she asked.

 **A/N Thank you for reading. Please leave me some words below.**


	5. The Fall of the House of Whitlock

**Disclaimer : All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.  
**

 **My thanks to twilightladies1. GeezerWench, you're the best prereader in the world. And beyond. Many thanks to Tarbecca for recommending my story on ADifferentForrest.**

 **Chapter 5**

 **The Fall of the House of Whitlock**

Isabella could feel her body grow more rigid with tension as she waited for Jasper to speak. She had absolutely no idea what he wanted from her—was it something to do with Charlotte? That didn't even bear thinking about. _Or was it something more?_ She kept furtively glancing at him, but refused to fully meet his eyes. Her anxiety climbed to new peaks as the seconds ticked away. He was sitting on the armchair completely relaxed, observing her with his cold, dead, blue eyes.

The silence was tense and unbearable.

Isabella sighed loudly, "Are you going to say something?"

Jasper tilted his head and smiled, but his smile didn't resemble his old one. It was ominous and scary.

"What do I want?" Jasper chuckled, seeming to jeer at her. "Well, sugar, for starters I want some answers."

He spread out on the armchair, stretching his long legs. Isabella focused her attention on the black leather of his boots, gleaming in the artificial light. She noticed a few cracks in them, but they were perfect in contrast to her own pair.

As she continued to scrutinize his footwear, she came to the conclusion that Jasper was outdoing her in everything. _Everyone was outdoing her._ For the second time that week, she realized just how much of a wreck she really was. Her eyes began to glaze over with unshed tears, and she had to blink several times to stop them from spilling. She refused to let Jasper see how weak she was. Her hands were trembling hard so she clasped her fingers together, squeezing them tightly in an attempt to control one aspect of her appearance.

"Look at yourself, Isabella. Look how pathetic you are." Jasper scoffed at her and shook his head, a leering smile on his face. "You look like a drug addict, living here in this shithole. And where are your manners? You didn't even offer me a drink."

Jasper stopped his speech to take a look around. He shrugged and looked back at Isabella sitting across him. The tears in her eyes finally spilled over and she slumped on the sofa, the knuckles of her clasped fingers whitening under the pressure.

"What have you done with the money from selling Peter's house?" he asked.

Isabella started like she'd been woken from a deep sleep.

"What?" she said, her voice still hoarse. She blinked, not understanding the question.

"What have you done with the money? The house in Galveston was worth a shitload of cash. You don't own this place, do you?"

"I rent it." Isabella could feel the hot tears rolling down her cheeks, but she didn't try to wipe them.

"You rent it?" Jasper laughed out loud. "Really Isabella, it's getting interesting, isn't it?"

The man got serious then and spoke with a sharp, commanding voice: "Where is the money?"

"The mo-money was mine, why are you asking me about it?" Isabella stuttered in her attempt at defense, but she wiped her tears and straightened.

Jasper leaned toward her. He furrowed his brows and clenched his fists.

"Don't piss me off, Isabella. The money wasn't yours. You have sold the possessions of my brother's life. It was his money. The blood and sweat of Peter. Quit playing around and answer my fucking question!" His voice rose harshly.

Jasper's clenched fist thudded on the table and the small plate jumped with a loud clatter. Isabella startled and froze, gasping.

"Speak!" he barked.

"I-I've donated it." She lowered her head, fearful of his reaction.

"The fuck? You donated it?" Jasper widened his eyes in surprise. " You _donated_ it?" he repeated, as if not understanding her absurd answer.

"Yes. I've donated it," Isabella confirmed with a jerking nod.

Jasper sighed and brushed his blonde curls out of his face.

"Who did you donate it to?" he demanded.

"To the Children of Fallen Soldiers Relief Fund. They support the widows and orphans," she recited without breath. Bella was now sobbing, tears running down her face, and her nose had started to run.

"Oh, really? Wow, that must have been one hell of an event—young widow of Sergeant Peter Whitlock donating all his money to the foundation. Did you feel good being in the spotlight?" he asked, angry and confused.

"The donation was anonymous," she answered automatically.

 _The quicker I answer the sooner he'll leave me alone._

"Yeah, that's why we haven't heard about it." He nodded thoughtfully. "Did you want to appease your guilt? Did you want to feel better after Peter's death, which was your fault? After you broke everything he was and everything he had? After you ruined the family?" He was breathing heavily, spitting the words out in an angry torrent.

The merciless series of Jasper's questions bowled her over. She cried out loud, hiding her face in her palms.

"You stupid bitch," Jasper hissed.

Isabella didn't hear it. She could hear only her own cries and the roar of her heart in her ears

 _It's my fault._

 _All my fault._

She wailed, swaying like an abandoned child.

 _I've ruined it all._

"Isabella!" The sharp voice of Jasper was muffled. "Isabella! I haven't finished yet, so stop it, leave your weeping for later."

She raised her head and saw that Jasper's face was red and angry.

"You are repulsive, self-centered scum, Isabella," Jasper drawled through clenched teeth. "Did it never occur to you how Charlotte must have felt when she had to bury her son alone?" He breathed in and continued. "She was all alone, because her oldest son was in a hospital in Iraq, and her daughter-in-law didn't even bother to come to the funeral. The funeral of her own _husband_."

Isabella's eyes were red and puffy, sore from crying, but she tried to look at Jasper as he spoke to her. At his unforgiving words, her eyes widened in shock; Jasper was full of so much hate.

"You weren't there? You didn't go to Peter's funeral either?" she asked quietly.

"No."

Jasper pulled up the sleeves of his black shirt and Isabella noticed the scars covering his forearms. He then pushed his hair to the side so she could see another. It marked his cheek, near his ear. Isabella groaned and raised her hands to her mouth.

"What happened?" she asked, scared.

"I got permission to go to Peter's funeral, but the convoy was attacked. It was burned pretty bad. Spent some time in the hospital in Germany." Jasper's face was again devoid of emotion. "Fucking coincidence."

"Oh, Jasper, I'm so, so…"

Jasper stopped her with an abrupt slicing movement of his hand.

"Spare me your bullshit sympathy. I don't need it," he spat at her. "Where were _you_?"

Isabella thought she would faint. The blood flowed away from her face, her lips, as white as snow, opened and closed over and over, not making a sound.

"Answer me." Jasper's voice was a low growl. His muscles tensed.

"I was in a hospital," she whispered slowly.

"Why? Did you have a nervous breakdown?" Jasper yelled. "You couldn't take the responsibility?"

"No…" Isabella tried to reply. "It wasn't like that."

"Couldn't you think about someone else for once? Not about yourself? Couldn't you get a grip for once and be there for your parents-in-law?" Jasper screamed louder and louder. "You chose to play mournful widow that can't attend the funeral, because it's too much for her!"

"No!" Isabella's scream was louder than Jasper's. "I was fucking pregnant!"

She hid her head in her forearms, breathing loudly as the painful memories crashed over her.

"You were ... _Fuck_!"

Isabella heard the sound of breaking glass and a crash as her table overturned and hit the wall under the window. Before she managed to open her eyes, she could feel the movement of the air and fingers gripping her hair. A hard tug made her raise her head and look at the man who was leaning above her and looking at her with a murderous stare.

"God knows only how badly I want to hit you right now, Isabella, but my mother raised me better," he whispered. "Now listen to me. You ruined the family. You took Peter away from us. You had an abor—" he glanced at her stomach, swallowed, and his fingers tightened the grip in her hair. "You are an unworthy piece of shit, Isabella. Look at me."

She didn't dare to move. She held her breath again.

"You are useless. You know, Peter called me and said that he was going to reenlist, just because you were going through some problems. He said that he would give you some time to think, that he would give you the space. You _bitch_ ," he said, spitting through his teeth. "You are a poison. But you're a Whitlock after all. I promised my brother I would take care of you, just in case. And I will. Like I said, I keep my word."

He released her and straightened.

"Pack your things," he ordered.

 **A/N: Still with me?**


	6. The Promises

**Disclaimer : All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.  
**

 **My thanks to twilightladies1. GeezerWench - I love you for everything you do.**

 **Chapter 6**

 **The Promises**

After Jasper had finished his speech, and had said everything he came to say, he sat back in Isabella's sagging, old armchair. Making himself comfortable, he crossed his legs and lit a cigarette. He thought back over the talk he had just had with her—it definitely hadn't gone as planned. Yes, he had wanted to learn some things he was curious about—along with the rest of his family—and although he hadn't wanted to, he needed to inform his dead brother's wife that she was his responsibility, solely due to Peter's wish.

Before arriving at Isabella's, he had planned how each moment of their meeting would go. He was to be in control, she would listen, and that would be the end of it.

It never occurred to him he would lose all sense of control.

Jasper Whitlock was the kind of man who liked everything laid out before him in a precise, logical order. Who anticipated every single step—the scenarios of future events appeared in his head and the unpredictability of the fates didn't stand a chance. He was a perfect strategist. That's why his career in the Army was quick and brilliant. His superiors admired his perspicacity and rock-steady calm, the rightness of making decisions.

But today, with Isabella, his composure had been shot all to Hell.

Jasper inhaled the smoke deeply as he came to the conclusion that he had developed a tendency to become annoyed and irritated more easily than he ever had before, and his anger had exploded with no reason. He shrugged at the thought—after all, the last month hadn't been a good one for him.

He glanced at Isabella and noted, without surprise, that she was sitting in the same position, staring blankly directly forward, and completely still.

Ignoring the silent woman, he methodically finished his cigarette, stood up, and walked through to the kitchen to throw it in the trash. As he reentered the room, he approached the woman who had stopped crying and now stared at him. Jasper was more than a bit perturbed as he took her in—she was like a puppet waiting on him, the puppet master, to pull her strings.

"Isabella, I asked you to do something," he reminded her.

Isabella blinked slowly and her eyes moved to Jasper's face, their dull emptiness reminding him of a doll.

"You are so wrong," she whispered.

"I'm trying to be patient here. Could you just go and pack up your stuff?" Jasper asked calmly, promising himself that he would try to keep a hold of his nerves. He went back to the armchair and lit another cigarette.

 _I could do with some whiskey_ , he thought.

"No," Isabella answered.

She still looked at him and her eyes seemed to be made of glass with no hint of reflection.

"Being stubborn won't do you any good, Isabella, I assure you," Jasper hissed. "Stop talking and start thinking about what you want to take with you, _please._ " He said please, but there was nothing polite about the way he asked. It wasn't a question; he was deadly serious and he was ordering her.

"No," she repeated. "I'm not going anywhere."

Jasper sighed, angry again. He assumed she would be stubborn, but he thought everything would be better, _easier_. He couldn't … Damn it all, he just couldn't leave her behind. He'd made a promise to Peter. He promised to his mother. He found himself _wanting_ to take care of her. The deplorable conditions made him feel some small trace of sympathy. _Jesus Christ, if Peter could see her…_

 _Fucking everything is amiss._

In a sudden feeling of desperation, Jasper stood abruptly and approached her. Isabella started in surprise and covered herself with her hands as if she was expecting a blow.

Jasper furrowed his eyebrows and kneeled in front of her.

"Isabella, stop. I _said_ I won't hurt you," he drawled, disgusted that she would even think such a thing.

Isabella gradually lowered her hands and fixed her gaze on the wooden floor next to Jasper's knees.

"Let's start over," he said quietly. "Please explain. _Why_ do you want to stay here?"

"Why should I go with _you?"_ she answered rudely.

Jasper felt his patience running out but he set his teeth and tried to be calm.

"I told you before," he said slowly as if he was talking to a little child. "I promised Peter that I would take care of you."

"You hate me," she stated.

Jasper backed off slightly. The intense truth of that simple statement was too close to home to negate courteously. He sighed out loud and pondered over Isabella's words. Did he hate her?

 _Yes, he did_. He could easily imagine killing her. He could almost feel the pulse in her neck, thumping under his fingers as he was choking her. Or maybe, it would be better to beat her into oblivion and leave her to die on the blood-wet floor in the basement. Jasper tilted his head. He felt an almost perverted pleasure from fantasizing about the cruel ways to annihilate Peter's wife. Peter died from a bullet and that way would be too merciful, too quick for her.

Suddenly, he felt ashamed of his thoughts. He examined Isabella, and his eyes darkened with renewed anger. He came to the conclusion that she was so pitiful and made him feel so sorry for her that he wanted to kill her to end her obvious misery. Another part of him felt compelled to take care of her, not only because he had promised Peter, but because he wanted it _himself_. That storm of diametrically opposed desires were so utterly ridiculous, he blinked to force them into submission and lowered his head.

"You hate me. It's ok," Isabella said. "You shouldn't give a damn about the promise. Leave me the hell alone."

Jasper finally raised his head and shook it in negation. He looked her dead in the eye, inhaled and stood up.

"You know that I can't do that. I don't _want_ to do that," he said. " It's out of the question. We need to reach an agreement," Jasper sighed and continued. "Why do you want to stay here so badly? Be honest. What keeps you here?"

Isabella bit her lip. She could choose telling the truth or lie. Lying to Jasper didn't make any sense and the truth seemed to be so unbelievable, so she decided to tell it.

"I chose this city accidentally. I bought the bus ticket to Seattle, but I got off here," she said shyly and shrugged. "I want to stay here—in Denver."

Jasper didn't reply. The small living room let him to make a few steps only and he approached the window in a second. He picked up the table that he'd overturned before and placed it next to the window. He glanced at the broken pieces of the plate and sighed. He peered through the window and saw the spot where he had been standing two days before, observing Isabella's house. He remembered, with no small amount of discomfort, how he had chickened out that evening, how he'd called Charlotte and said he didn't have the guts to meet Isabella face to face—the woman he blamed for the tragedy in his family.

"Whitlock & Whitlock has its representative offices all around the country. You want to stay here, _we_ stay," he said, still looking through the window.

Isabella started. Jasper's statement surprised her and she wondered what it would mean. She shook her head. She decided to dispel her doubts and just ask him about it, but the man forestalled her questions before she managed to open her mouth.

"I'm the CEO of the company now. Charlotte and Peter Sr. retired a long time ago," he supplied. He turned to face her. "I had to do something, since I ended my military career."

Isabella grimaced with another jolt of pain. Resigning from his military career didn't fit Jasper. Hell, it didn't fit Peter either. She thought with empathy that it must have cost Jasper a lot, and she knew that was one of the reasons he was the way he was.

Embittered, nervous, and violent.

She tried to get up, but her legs were stubborn and refused to cooperate.

 _I'm so tired_ , she thought. She longed to lied down and get some sleep. She wanted the awkward and distressing evening to finish. She wondered what time it was. It seemed as though centuries had passed since she opened the door for Peter's brother.

"I don't want to be a burden," she said with difficulty. "I can manage. I'll call you from time to time."

Jasper exploded with laughter.

"I can see how you well _manage_ ," he said, amused. "You don't even believe that yourself, do you? I won't change my mind," he added.

The man looked at Isabella and realized she wasn't convinced. _It's no use_ , he thought. _I can't drag her with me by force, kicking and screaming, even if that would be effective…_

He needed a different strategy to achieve his intended goal. He wasn't the type of person who gave up.

"Isabella, this is Peter's wish. I promised him that no matter what happened you wouldn't be all alone—that I would take care of you," he said calmly, his voice full of authority. "You owe him after everything you did to him."

Isabella could feel the tears forming again so she lowered her head.

Jasper raised his eyebrow and was silent for a while. He still had one last ace up his sleeve.

"But if you refuse, I will understand. I'll call Charlotte and tell her that I tried," he said with a sigh.

"I agree," Isabella whispered.

 _Score._

"You agree to what?" Jasper was merciless.

"I'll go with you."

He smiled, triumphant. He hadn't wanted to resort to such tactics as playing on her guilt and fear of Charlotte, but Jasper knew how to win.

"You want to stay in Denver, it's ok. We'll use the company apartment tonight—I'll think about something different for tomorrow. Go pack your bag."

Isabella nodded and got up, defeated.

"Isabella?"

She risked a quick look at Jasper. In that moment, he reminded her of the boy she'd met so many years ago. His granite-hard features had softened, and there was a shadow of smile on his lips, a _real_ smile.

"Thank you, Isabella," he said softly.

 **A/N Thank you. If you want a teaser, let me know.**


	7. The Stumbles

**Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.**

 **GeezerWench made it readable for you.**

 **Chapter 7**

 **The Stumbles**

"Fuck."

Edward cursed as he slipped on the wet floor of the hospital before miraculously catching his balance. Two young nurses that were passing by giggled at the sight. It wasn't _every_ day they saw Dr. Cullen fluttering his hands and making uncoordinated but necessary movements.

"Very fucking funny," Edward muttered, pissed off.

As soon as he felt that he had regained his balance, he picked up his bag from the floor. During his fight with gravity, it had slipped from his hand.

He brushed his unruly hair out of his eyes and hastily made his way to the exit.

He'd just finished a 36-hour shift. Normally, he managed to rest his eyes for a short time, but during this shift he'd barely had time to grab a coffee, never mind sleep. Now he was dreaming of a huge breakfast and a dozen or so hours of uninterrupted sleep.

Almost there, all he had to do was get in the car and go home. Edward wondered for a second if he should call Esme and ask her to prepare breakfast for him, but decided against it. After all, it was still only seven in the morning, and surely she was still sleeping. The last thing he wanted was to listen to her meditations and worries. His mother was hard to stand lately, and things had only gotten worse over the few last weeks.

Edward walked out of the main entrance of Denver Health and headed towards his car that was parked nearby. He raised his eyes from the grey asphalt of the sidewalk and couldn't believe what he saw.

The _damned stray_ was getting out of a black car that was parked in a prohibited place. Edward's eyes widened, his heart beat faster, as he took in the car—a limited anniversary edition of a Shelby Cobra. A very uncommon site in these places. And not only that—there was a man opening the passenger door for her.

The man's face, along with his posture, was sending a clear non-verbal message: _don't fuck with me_. He was muscular but slender, tall—taller than Edward, and dressed up like a modern cowboy, boots and all. Edward took a hasty look around, but there was no escape. The woman looked straight at him.

 _Damned stray_ , repeated Edward in his thoughts. It had been a month since Esme had gone crazy. It was because of _Bella_. And apparently _Bella_ just found herself another naïve person whom she was trying to use, so Edward's mother was unwanted now.

Edward came to the conclusion that man was the reason why every single one of Esme's attempts to contact Mrs. Whitlock had been unsuccessful.

Every time Esme had called her, the phone would simply go to voicemail. Worried that something was seriously wrong, she had gone to Isabella's apartment only to be told by the janitor she had moved, but was still paying rent. Carlisle, despite having the patience of a saint, was extremely worried.

Edward had no other option and perused Isabella. She looked much better than last time he had seen her. Her clothes weren't hanging off her anymore—one could guess that she had been eating better meals. Her hair—that he had liked even if he wouldn't admit it—was even more beautiful; it was falling down her shoulders in slightly curled, shiny waves. His eyes made their way up to her face and he hissed out a breath.

 _What the actual fuck?_

The left side was disfigured by purple and violet bruise that looked fresh. It spread from her cheekbone to her superciliary ridge. From Edward's distance the ridge looked like split open deeply and it was screaming for stitches.

Edward furrowing his own eyebrows in a moment of sympathy, he had no idea what to do or how to behave. He _didn't_ care for Isabella, but on the other hand, he was wholeheartedly against any forms of violence—especially towards women. He didn't know how he was supposed to react; he didn't know if he had the right to do so.

"Good morning, Edward," Isabella said shyly as Edward approached them. She looked to the ground, her cheeks flushing in embarrassment as she remembered their last meeting. She didn't even know if she could talk to him.

"Isabella," Edward nodded his head, confused and lost.

The man accompanying Isabella abruptly slammed the car's door and approached her at a rapid pace. He shot a sharp look at Edward as he stepped in front of Isabella.

Edward decided to ignore him and said to Mrs. Whitlock, "How are you, Isabella?"

His voice was unsure. His eyes were studying her face and the question reflected in his eyes spoke for itself.

"I'm fine," she answered quietly. She touched her cheek and bit her lip. "I had a little … accident."

She glanced at her companion and gestured to Edward with her shaking hand, sighing.

"Jasper, meet Edward Cullen. Edward, this is my …" she hesitated, but at the same time the blond man, dressed all in black, reached out his hand in greeting.

"Jasper Whitlock," he said.

Edward reached out quickly and muttered his own name, surprised. The handshake that Mr. Whitlock bestowed him was certainly _too_ hard.

The silence lasted for long seconds before Jasper grabbed Isabella's elbow. "We should go," he said with authority and looked at her meaningfully.

"Yes, you're right," she said obediently. "See you, Edward."

"See you, Isabella," his response was automatic, as he observed Jasper leading Isabella towards the hospital entrance.

He stood there for a while trying to process what had happened until he finally blinked and went to his car.

When he arrived home, he could not make sense of what he had seen so he pushed it to the back of his mind. He took off his jacket and threw it on the table in the hall. He walked towards the kitchen where he could hear his parents talking.

Esme was sitting with her elbows resting on the table, her face hidden by her palms. Carlisle was standing behind her and stroking her back, attempting to soothe her. Edward looked at his father in question. Carlisle aimed his eyes on the calendar that was hanging on the kitchen wall. Edward read the date, but he didn't immediately recognize it.

For a moment.

"How do you feel, mom?" he asked, his voice dry.

Esme raised her head. Her eyes were red and puffy, a sure sign that she had been crying. There was a shadow of a smile on her lips and she reached out her hands to Edward and Carlisle laid his on top of their clasped hands. The three of them stayed like that for some time, with only the clock ticking and the coffee express humming to break the silence.

"Breakfast?" Esme offered finally.

Edward nodded gratefully. Esme stood up and went towards the fridge as Carlisle reached to grab the newspaper that was placed on the table.

Edward thought he couldn't stand the silence any longer. Silence that was so foreign to the house, for their family. He decided to break it. Besides, he fully intended to divert Esme's attention from the damned date.

"I met the st.. your Isabella today," he said quietly.

Time stopped. It congealed like aspic. Edward heard the sound of breaking glass; Esme had dropped the bowl. She quickly turned, her eyes finding Edward's immediately. He waited for some questions, for some emotions to come, but Esme was only looking at him.

"I saw her today in front of the hospital," he stated precisely as he concluded that his mother wanted to know.

Esme didn't say a word.

"Esme, honey?" Carlisle was worried and he went to her.

She blinked and looked less stunned as her husband touched her arm.

"What's wrong with her?" she asked, her voice trembling. "Tell us everything."

"There's not much to tell," Edward answered. "I was going home and met her in the parking area. I think she needed the ambulatory treatment."

"What?" Esme made a step back.

"The superciliary ridge was split open and huge, ugly bruise on her cheek," Edward explained professionally, pointing toward his eyebrow, his voice emotionless.

"My God, Carlisle, someone hurt her!" Esme cried, covering her lips with her fingers. Her eyebrows drew together; the accusation clear in her eyes. "You didn't help her? How could you leave her there, all alone?"

Edward turned away and pinched the bridge of his nose in frustration.

"Mom …" he started to speak, but Esme cut him off.

"How could you?" she cried again.

Edward started to regret that he had opened his mouth. " _It was a mistake, I'd better to leave it alone,"_ he thought.

"She was not alone, okay?" he yelled.

He rubbed his face with his hands and looked at Esme. She was standing exactly in the same place with her arms raised, completely still.

"She was not alone," he repeated. "She was with her _husband_."

Esme widened her eyes and glanced at Carlisle who was as stunned as his wife. Her bewildered gaze returned to Edward.

"With her husband?" she asked, the amazement and the fright in her voice.

"Yes. He drove her there and they went inside together," he confirmed.

"But Edward, her husband is dead," Esme said slowly.

Edward looked at Carlisle, confused, and his father nodded his head, confirming Esme's words.

"Peter Whitlock died in Iraq in February last year," Carlisle said confidently. "We checked it out."

Edward looked between his parents, confusion written all over his face.

"Then, who the hell …?" he cut himself off. "The man she was with said his name was Jasper," Edward wondered aloud as he relived the memory of Jasper's excessively tight handshake.

Suddenly he lowered his head. He remembered his own words he had spoken to Isabella the first time they met, just before the most awkward of dinners.

" _Will Mr. Whitlock be joining us?"_

 _Fuck._

 _Xxx_

Isabella didn't allow the nurse to anaesthetize her before stitching her cut.

When she stepped out from behind the curtained area of the emergency room, she saw that Jasper was standing in the hall and staring through the window. After the last couple of weeks, she had learned to recognize his moods. She was analyzing his rigid posture and she already knew that he was irritated and impatient. She walked closer to him and stopped two steps behind.

"Jasper?"

Without saying a word, the man turned to face her and pointed at the exit. He refused to meet her eyes, but she saw it in his face—he was angry. She could read it in his suddenly sharp features, in the wrinkle between his eyebrows and tensed jaw line. His darkened eyes were looking straight ahead as if she didn't deserve attention, as if she didn't deserve a glance.

He refused to speak to her. The drive home was a nightmare. The thick and oppressive silence was smothering her. She wished she had a knife to slice through it so she could get a breath of air.

When they arrived home, Isabella got bolted out the car, not bothering to wait for Jasper to open her door. She fled to the door, typing in the security code, and finally took a deep breath when she stumbled inside. She planned to take two Tylenols and go to bed because the stitches were bothering her. When she was half way up the stairs, leading to her room, she froze.

The sharp, seething tone of voice left her no choice.

"Come back downstairs, Isabella. We need to talk."

 **A/N Drop me a line, please. And give Jasper a chance!**


	8. The Whiskey

**Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.**

 **GeezerWench made it all better.**

 **The Whiskey**

Reluctantly, Isabella entered the kitchen as slowly as she could. She wasn't looking forward to the confrontation and was eager to put it off, unsure of the reason Jasper wanted to talk to her. Her head was already throbbing and she started to feel unwell.

She glanced anxiously at Jasper. He was sitting at the table, every muscle tense. His eyes were fixed on the abandoned, almost empty bottle of Jack Daniels near his arm. Beside it were two glasses, one of them half-full with the remainder of the amber liquid, the other clean and empty.

"Sit down," Jasper barked.

Isabella hesitated. She started towards the seat, but decided to stay in her current place.

"I said sit down," Jasper repeated firmly.

Isabella pulled the chair out unwillingly and sat down across from him, looking at him curiously. He still didn't honor her with one single glance, his gaze focused on the bottle of whiskey. After few moments, he grabbed it and poured the rest of the alcohol into two glasses.

Isabella swallowed.

Still not looking at her, he sighed and moved his attention to the label on the bottle that he held in his hand.

"Jack Daniels Whiskey. Its silky smooth, but sometimes its shows its rough face," he said. "Do you know that Jack Daniels' real name was Jasper Newton Daniel? Maybe that's why I like it so much."

Isabella blinked. She didn't have any idea where he was heading with that story. She remained quiet, sitting in her chair, her features giving away her total bewilderment.

"Jasper Daniel wanted his whiskey to be sold straight from the barrels. He changed his mind in 1895. That's when, for the first time, Jack's whiskey went to the characteristic square bottle," he continued.

The man clasped it even more tightly.

"Drink," he said. It wasn't a question.

Isabella widened her eyes, surprised. The thought about the not-so-smooth liquid made her desire to vomit morph into an urgent necessity.

She shook her head.

"What's wrong, Isabella? Did you suddenly lose your willingness for whiskey?"

Isabella shrugged.

"I said _drink_ ," Jasper said quietly. "I'll pour it down your throat if I have to."

Isabella clasped her fingers around the glass and chanced a look at him, hoping he would change his mind.

He raised his eyebrow. His blue eyes colder than ever, the intensity of the very first glance that he'd offered her made her shiver.

She lifted her glass. The smell was terrible and the saliva flowed through her mouth. Jasper was still looking at her with anticipation.

She took a sip of alcohol and choked instantly. The drops of whiskey sprayed in the air, creating the yellowish mist that settled down the table slowly.

Jasper sat back in his chair, his face free of emotion.

"Don't you like it? Is the taste bad?" He asked derisively.

Isabella didn't answer. She made the move to stand up and leave, but Jasper stopped her with his look.

"It's weird that you don't like it," he said calmly. "I could have sworn that yesterday you'd liked it a lot. What the fuck is wrong with you? I leave the town for one single day, I come back at night, and here you are drunk as a fucking skunk," he hissed, his composure now lost.

Isabella looked to the side.

"For God's sake, you almost drank the entire bottle!"

Jasper sighed and shook his head.

"What's wrong? For the last month you seemed to be coming alive. You were doing something; you were even furnishing the house! What's changed?" His eyes are full of curiosity.

Isabella remained silent. She felt shame and embarrassment, the dull pain in her skull and the taste of whiskey on her tongue were the terrible mix that didn't let her gather her thoughts.

"Answer me, damn it! Why?" Jasper lost his patience.

He took a swing and with one efficient move, smashed the bottle into pieces on the wall.

Isabella flinched as the glass shattered and bit her lip nervously. She looked at him and felt the tears in her eyes. She mopped them with the back of her palm and spat the answer out.

"I felt so alone."

She lowered her head and began to crumple the edge of her blouse with her fingers. "I'm sorry," she whispered.

Jasper sighed again and rubbed his face with his palms.

The thick, ominous silence became too much for Isabella. She knew that nothing good would come from it.

"I thought-" she added shyly." I thought you wouldn't be back."

"Jesus Christ, Bella-" Jasper gasped.

He thought about the last evening.

When he had arrived home, Isabella was beyond drunk. She heard him opening the door and she made a clumsy attempt to flee. He called her name, making her run even faster, causing her to stumble and hit her head on the marble banister pretty hard. It hadn't slowed her down – she kept going and when he'd reached the first floor, he heard the key turning in the door of her room as she locked herself in. He saw the bloody trace on the banister; he brushed it with his finger. He felt nauseous; the sight or smell of the blood never bothered him so he was unsure as to why he had suddenly felt ill.

He continued to knock on her door well into the night, without any response. He had given up, retiring to his room, but leaving his door slightly ajar so he knew when she reappeared.

She resurfaced in the early morning, after clearly falling asleep in her clothes. She wore the same outfit as the day before, but they were badly wrinkled and her hair was a mess, piled on top of her head. As he heard her moving about in the hall, he approached her, his eyes focusing on her face. The sight of the wound made his skin crawl, but not for long. The wave of anger flushed his veins before he composed himself.

"Good morning, Isabella. Take a shower, we're leaving for the hospital in half an hour," he had ordered. "You need help with the shower?"

"No," she whispered, her voice hoarse.

"Very well," Jasper raised his chin. His silhouette straight, his hands clasped behind his back – one could say that he was on the battle field, ordering his squadron. "Meet you downstairs in thirty minutes."

Bella's quiet voice brought him back to the present from the memories of earlier that day.

"I'm sorry," she repeated.

Jasper lowered his hands and looked at her. He felt the nearly irresistible urge to go to her and hug her, but he suppressed it quickly.

"No, Isabella. I'm the one who should be sorry," he said trenchantly. "I should have called you. I should have let you know," he added.

Isabella raised her head and eyed him. His face was worried, he seemed to fight with himself, he wanted to say something, but he inhaled deeply instead. Isabella made a poor attempt to smile at him.

"Who was that man we met near the hospital?" Jasper asked suddenly, fixing his eyes on hers.

Isabella felt her skin redden under his perusal and furrowed her eyebrows. She thought about the answer for some time and Jasper remained silent, not interfering or rushing her.

"He's Esme's son," she said.

"And who the hell is Esme?" Jasper couldn't comprehend Isabella's enigmatic reply.

"Esme Cullen is an acquaintance. The only acquaintance in Denver that I have," Isabella explained, choosing her words carefully. "She invited me to dinner, and then I met Edward. He's a doctor, like his father," she added quickly.

"She invited you to her house?"

"Yes," Isabella answered shyly.

Jasper didn't say a word. He got up and went round the table to stand behind her. Isabella could feel her muscles tensing; that irrational reaction made her nervous. She grabbed the front of her blouse and started clasping it with her fists.

He put his palms on her shoulders. She flinched and wanted to get up, but firm pressure of Jasper's hands made her stay.

"Take a look around, Isabella," Jasper said. "Look how beautiful this kitchen is, you made it this way. You have everything you need here, right?"

Isabella, surprised, turned her head and looked above her to meet his eyes.

"Just cook your best meal and invite your acquaintances in. It's your house, Isabella, not jail," he said.

Isabella blinked.

"Besides you owe them, you should invite them to visit," Jasper added. "What do you think?"

Isabella wanted to deny it, but the thought about Esme made her heart beat faster. She noticed that she missed someone other than Peter for the first time since he died.

 _Peter_.

She felt the sting of pain and she looked down at her sweaty and crawling fingers.

"It's a good idea," she whispered.

"Great. Take care of it. Now you should get some sleep," Jasper suggested and left the kitchen.

Isabella could have sworn she felt his fingers brushing her hair for just a moment.

 **A/N** **Thank you for reading. Please drop me some words below.**


	9. The Invitiation

**Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.**

 **GeezerWench made it all better. She's the one who made this readable for you.**

 **Chapter 9**

 **The Invitation**

Isabella poured some coffee into her favorite yellow cup and inhaled deeply. The aroma from the steaming liquid created the atmosphere of a nice lazy morning. She took a sip as she remembered her plan for the day. Everything was prepared and ready. All she needed to do was cook the meal and decorate the table in time for the guest's arrival at seven.

She was standing, drinking her too-hot coffee, while she thought about the evening. Her peaceful ruminations were interrupted by Jasper as he appeared in the kitchen. He came in, sleepy, his hair a mess, and opened the fridge to grab a bottle of orange juice.

As she studied him, she suddenly realized that she had never seen him dressed so casually, wearing a black wife-beater, grey sweats, and his feet were bare. She'd never seen him without his usual black button-up shirt, black pants, and black cowboy boots. Isabella fixed her eyes on Jasper's forearms. His scars were visible more than usual in the morning sun and it drew her attention. She furrowed her eyebrows and sighed. That was an area that was still a sore subject for the both of them. She could recall the feel of the scars—how the deformed skin on his arms was surprisingly softer than its horribly coarse appearance.

Then she remembered the events of last night.

Over the last few months, she rarely dreamt, but the nightmare her subconscious had bestowed upon her was horrifying enough to cause her to scream out loud and cry—and it woke Jasper up.

She blushed, confused.

"I'll cover them if they bother you," Jasper drawled, gesturing at his arm, his voice hoarse and his southern drawl more pronounced.

Jasper's accent didn't usually show. It appeared when he was completely laid-back, when he was extremely nervous, or when he was angry and forgot to control it.

Isabella wondered if he was relaxed or pissed off.

"No, no … I … Thank you for yesterday," she said. "For last night, I mean," she corrected herself quickly. "I'm sorry I woke you up."

"Well, don't be," Jasper nodded and touched the brim of an imaginary hat. "Jasper-the-dream-catcher-Whitlock at your service, ma'am."

Isabella smiled as she realized that he was, as it seemed, in a good mood. She inhaled deeply; she wasn't sure how to behave after everything that happened in her bedroom.

Even though she wished she couldn't, she recalled the details of her nightmare, and her own screams and cries, her body drenched in sweat, and her tangled hair as she thrashed about her bed. She remembered Jasper's strong arms and how he pulled her to his firm chest, refusing to let her go, no matter how much she fought him. Eventually, she surrendered and struggled to get a grip on reality.

Afterward, he continued to hold her, and as she dozed into yet another restless sleep, she heard his soft whispers but couldn't remember what he had been saying.

When she woke up, there was no sign of Jasper in her bedroom.

She blinked as she looked at Jasper and realized he was talking to her. Lost in her own thoughts, she hadn't heard his question the first time. She asked him to repeat himself.

"Do you feel better?"

She could still hear the southern accent and hints of amusement of his tomfoolery a minute before.

"I do. Thank you." She smiled shyly and put her cup into the sink.

"I want to talk with you about some things, if you have time," he said as he took a sip of his juice.

Isabella swallowed and felt a prick of unease. It was usually difficult to talk with Jasper. He always managed to drive her into a corner and make his point. But it was inevitable.

"Of course," she said. "Now?"

"That would be great." He pulled out a chair and sat down at the table.

Isabella hesitated but took a seat across from him. She glanced up at him and he smiled reassuringly as he leaned back in his seat.

"I've been thinking, and considering your difficulty with such simple tasks as doing grocery shopping and even simply going wherever you want, you rely on me—or really my Shelby—so I decided to buy you a car," he said, looking her in the eyes. "Whatcha think?"

Isabella, completely bewildered, blinked and then took a deep breath.

"I don't think it's necessary," she said. "It's too much."

"Think about it, Isabella," Jasper insisted. His slightly demanding tone didn't leave any room for deliberation. He'd already decided.

She was silent for a minute, and then nodded quickly.

"Good. Do you have something in mind? A particular model?" he asked.

"No," she whispered, defeated.

"Do you want me to choose?"

"Yes, why not," she answered.

"Great," Jasper said and smiled little wider, but he got serious immediately. "I'm sorry to say it, but I probably won't be here for dinner. I tried to cancel my business meeting, but it didn't work out." He sighed.

"It's all right," she said. "I have enough for you anyway. I'll leave some leftovers in the fridge and you can re-heat them later if you'd like."

"Thank you," he said with a sharp nod. "I have to go. Have a nice evening, Isabella."

He started to go towards the door, but then stopped.

"And Isabella?" he added over his shoulder. "Don't get drunk, please."

He left without waiting for her answer.

-SMH-

Edward was ready to go. He'd _been_ ready. He stood in the front hall, tapping his foot impatiently, as he waited for Esme and Carlisle to join him.

Esme had told him, all happy and smiling, that she'd spoken to Isabella Whitlock two days before, and they'd all received a dinner invitation. His first reaction was to come up with a some plausible excuse to decline, but he hesitated and it surprised him. So, he switched shifts with Tanya at the hospital and had a free evening. He had since begun to regret his decision. Dinner at Isabella's only meant more trouble. He simply didn't know how to act towards her, since their previous dealings had been rather tense. Besides, Mr. Whitlock, and his alleged participation in Isabella's injury, bothered him.

"Edward? We're ready to go," Esme called, smiling. She was excited and full of joy and anticipation.

They'd decided beforehand they would take one car, so as Carlisle focused on driving, Edward asked him if he knew where he was going.

"Isabella gave me her address and the necessary directions when she called, honey," Esme answered for her husband.

Edward grunted in response and closed his eyes. The low humming of the car engine was surprisingly therapeutic and he found it helped him ease into a light doze. He jolted awake as the car stopped and his mother's hand touched his arm gently.

"We're here," Esme said.

Edward rapidly blinked the sleep from his eyes and climbed out of the car, disoriented and stiff after the nap that had lasted too long. He took an appreciative look around. _Very nice neighborhood_ , he thought. And a fucking _red_ Shelby Cobra in the driveway.

He didn't notice, still confused, that Isabella had appeared to invite them in. She exchanged courtesies with Carlisle and Esme and she was staring at him along with his parents.

"Nice car," he blurted.

Esme grimaced, but Isabella smiled; it seemed his behavior hadn't put her off.

"It's Jasper being patriotic, he loves everything that comes from Texas," she replied. "He ordered it for me, but I'm not too sure about it. It was delivered today, but I'm going to give it back," she added.

Edward took a good look at Isabella during her speech. She appeared much better. He spied her wound and noticed that it was healing nicely.

Isabella led them inside to the living room and offered them drinks. Edward nodded, not really registering why, and she gave him a glass of gin and tonic.

"You have a beautiful house, Isabella," Esme said with emphasis. "The interior design must have cost a small fortune."

"It's Jasper's house," Isabella shrugged her shoulders. "I'm just living here temporarily. And I decorated, Jasper didn't have the time for it."

"Jasper?" Esme was curious enough to ask.

"Jasper … is my husband's brother. And he asked me to apologize on his behalf, he can't be here this evening due to business duties," Isabella answered. "Excuse me, I've got some things to finish with dinner."

She left her guests and returned to the kitchen. Edward watched her leave as he sat down in the armchair.

"Isabella looks great, doesn't she?" Esme whispered. "And she's talking."

Carlisle nodded.

Isabella announced dinner was ready and invited them to the dining room.

Dinner was delicious—the roast tender and moist, the rice pilaf savory with just the right amount of seasoning. Edward couldn't recall any meal he'd ever eaten that tasted so good. The conversation was pleasant and carefree; he even threw some jokes in. He noticed the distinct contrast between the catastrophe she attended at his parents' and the present dinner t. It didn't take a genius to figure out—his own behavior was the culprit.

Guilt had gnawed at him ever since he'd bumped into Isabella near the hospital, and it was currently bothering him even more. He surprised himself again as he offered to help Isabella clear the table. He regretted it the moment he went into the kitchen, following her, but he decided to ignore it.

"Have dinner with me," he practically demanded. As the words fell from his mouth, he realized it sounded more like an order and less like an invitation. He blushed, embarrassed. Somehow, the girl made him completely forget all sense of propriety. He coughed softly, clearing his throat before trying for a second time. "I would like to apologize for my rudeness before. Would you like to have dinner with me?" Isabella turned around slowly from the sink to face him.

Stunned, she replied quietly, "I think that would be a bad idea."

"It's just dinner." He tried to convince her as he felt his pride wounded slightly. " _Just_ dinner."

Isabella bit her lower lip and peered up at him, nodding uncertainly. "Okay." It was almost a question.

"The day after tomorrow? I can pick you up at eight," Edward wasn't happy she finally agreed. Irritated, he sighed deeply. _I don't know what I want,_ he chastised himself.

"I'd rather meet you there," Isabella said shyly.

"Fine. Esme has your number, so I'll call you to give you the details," he said abruptly.

He suddenly felt sick, lost, and baffled at his own actions . He wanted to get out. _Right now_.

Desperate to change the subject, he said the first thing that came to mind. "It's healing well," he said, looking pointedly at her eyebrow.

"Yes," she agreed, lightly brushing her forehead before returning to the dishes.

"Did he …?" Edward began, but she cut him off.

"No. No, it was an accident. I stumbled on the stairs and hit my head pretty hard," she explained with a wince.

Edward thought that she sounded sincere, even with the classic excuse victims of domestic violence normally used. He decided to drop it.

After pleasant goodbyes, and Esme's and Bella's promises to meet again soon, the journey home was surreal. The girl, Bella, had thrown Edward off balance, and he didn't like it one bit. In the background, he could hear Esme laughing and Carlisle singing with the low tune on the radio, but all he registered was his own loud pulse beating much too fast.

 **A/N Thank you for reading and reviewing SMH and my other stories. I'm sorry it took so long - it's summer and I'm lazy as fuck. BUT I went to trip to Slovakia to see Cachtice Castle, home of Elizabeth Bathory.**

 **Drop me a line, please.**


	10. Breathe

**Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.**

 **Beta/Pre-Reader: GeezerWench. Thank you, hun.**

Chapter 10

 **Breathe**

Isabella felt inpatient and nervous as she waited for Jasper to return home. It seemed weird to her that she wanted to talk to him, that for the first time it was she who wanted to initiate the conversation. She sighed—and for the hundredth time that afternoon—flipped through the newspaper.

She wasn't really interested in the stories and focused solely on the job adverts. She had a few highlighted and had even called a few. After the first few places informed her she didn't have the proper experience, she felt dejected. She threw her cell phone on the couch and huffed, irritated.

"Bad day?"

Jasper's voice made her jump slightly and she turned around clumsily to gawk at him.

And there he was: leaning against the doorframe, watching her without one trace of emotion on his handsome face.

Isabella nodded.

She bit her lower lip as she gathered her confidence. She knew what she wanted to say; she had repeated the same sentence in her head over and over and knew it by heart. Saying it out loud was another matter. She sighed again, and took a deep breath as she felt the muscles in her neck tense up.

"I'm going to dinner with Edward tonight," she said, breathless. Her voice didn't sound as steady and firm as she wanted it to. It sounded like the tiny squeak of a mouse caught in a trap. She fixed her eyes on the white floor of the hall, vexed by her own weakness.

Jasper lost his stoic composure just for only a second. Some kind of negative emotion distorted his features in a flash and it would need a good observer to catch an external symptom of anger that he felt at that moment. He straightened and raised his chin.

"Are you informing me or are you asking for my permission?" he asked loudly.

Isabella slumped, defeated. His posture and tone screamed _fight_ , and she just didn't have the energy. She didn't dare to look at the man she was afraid of: the man that made her feel useless and weak.

"I think I told you before that this house ain't a prison and you're not a hostage, Isabella," he continued, not bothered by her dejected posture. "You're capable of making your own choices, and your own decisions, but you have to be ready for the responsibility that comes with those actions. If you've decided that you're ready for—" he hesitated, but continued, "—new interactions, I can't interfere."

His words were rational and friendly, but Isabella found them blaming and attacking. She raised her head and looked at him.

"It's not like that; it's not a date," she whispered terrified, clasping her palms before her like she wanted to pray. "It's not like that..."

She looked in his eyes pleadingly, but Jasper's blue stare remained cold, unmoving and unfriendly.

"It's your business, not mine, Bella," he spat. "Take care."

He turned around and marched towards his study, his boots clattered the steady rhythm on the cold hall's floor.

Taking a steadying breath, she decided it was time to get ready to go.

Edward hadn't called her. He'd sent a dry and formal message with the address of the restaurant instead. When Isabella arrived, it appeared to be a nice, family business that served Italian food.

Isabella sat at the wooden table and waited for Edward to appear. As she toyed with the paper napkin, she couldn't help but notice he was already fifteen minutes late.

She had arrived at the restaurant later than she anticipated. After deciding against a cab, she drove to the city in her new Shelby Cobra and had trouble finding the right street. Every single attempt she'd made to convince Jasper to return the car had been pointless. He waved his hand at her objections and said _nonsense_. Resigned, she started to try to come to terms with all the attention she was attracting with her sophisticated car.

She glanced at her watch—it was half past eight. She took a sip of her water and stood up abruptly to go home. She was surprised when she felt a slight sting of disappointment. Sighing, she lowered her head and made to gather her belongings.

"Sorry I'm late. Something came up." She heard his voice and started. "Please, stay."

She looked up and saw Edward. His slightly blushed cheeks indicated that he was ashamed or confused; Isabella couldn't place why his face was different from its usual paleness.

"I tried to call you but your phone just went to voicemail. I hoped you would still be here when I arrived," he continued. "Shall we be seated?"

Isabella nodded and tried to sit, but Edward rushed and helped her with the chair. Then he took his own.

The awkward silence was interrupted when the waitress approached the table and offered them each a menu and some appetizers. They both declined alcoholic drinks and decided quickly to order chef's specials of the day. It was obvious that both Isabella and Edward wanted the meeting to finish as quickly as possible.

"How's Esme?" Isabella asked, making a heroic attempt to start a conversation.

"She's fine, but she misses you. Isabella, I would like to ... I know that I've been acting like an ass towards you—more than once, but—" Edward paused in the middle of the sentence, unsure how to finish it.

"I have an idea," Isabella said quickly. "Let's start over."

She offered him a hand and said, "I'm Bella Whitlock."

"Nice to meet you, Bella Whitlock," Edward took her hand, appreciative of the gesture from the reticent woman, and amused. "My name is Edward Cullen, and I have absolutely no idea what to say."

Isabella smiled shyly.

"I miss her, too," she replied. "I hope we can meet up more often. I don't know why she likes me, what's so special about me, but she helped me somehow." Isabella seemed deep in thought for a while, but she shook her head and returned her attention to her companion.

Edward furrowed brow and appeared to be no longer amused.

"I'm sorry, I shouldn't..." she trailed off, but he waved his hand at her.

"It's not your fault," he said. "It's not your fault that she thinks you're just like _her_."

"Like who?" Isabella eyes widened, confused.

"Alice," Edward replied with difficulty, the fact of speaking this feminine name seemed to hurt him.

"Alice?" Isabella repeated, still not understanding.

Edward sighed and looked at the woman. He wondered if he should tell her everything, but he was annoyed and uncomfortable. The waitress bought him some time, as she arrived and placed their plates on the table. He got a grip on his emotions and spoke calmly.

"I'd prefer it if you had this conversation with Esme, but it was me that brought it up. I think it's time you have some answers," he said quietly. "Alice is my sister. The last time we saw her was three years ago, on April 17th."

Isabella opened her mouth but no sound came out.

"The search team failed. Legal and illegal ways failed. She's gone."

"I'm so sorry." Isabella whispered. "I had no idea."

"That's why she likes you so much."

Isabella lowered her head.

"Let's talk about something else," Edward said. "You know, you look much better than you did when I last saw you," he threw in and grimaced, embarrassed by his poor attempt at a compliment.

Isabella shrugged and smiled. It was true, after all.

"Yeah, it's all Jasper's work. He's helping me stand on my own two feet, and as thankful as I am, it's all just temporary. I just need to find a job now," she said. "It's frustrating, with no experience and all."

"What would you like to do?" he asked, happy with the change of the topic

"Anything," she replied quickly. "I hate sitting at home, doing nothing and depending on—" she stopped, ashamed.

"I see," Edward nodded. He studied her closely. He realized that he had judged her much too quickly, and it bothered him. He found himself caring for her and wishing he could help.

Edward put his fork down suddenly.

"Let's go to the cinema. I'm in the mood to watch some mindless comedy," he announced, startling even himself. "Let's watch something … anything. I want to forget about everything and just ... breathe."

The corners of Isabella's eyes crinkled with her smile.

"I haven't been to the movies for ages," she happily agreed as she moved to stand up. "Let's go, then."

**SMH**

It was well after midnight when Isabella tapped in the security code and opened the main door. She put the car keys on the table, and without the turning the lights on, moved to the hall. Pale moonlight shone over the couch and the dark silhouette of Jasper. He was sleeping, half-sitting, boots and all. She wondered if he fell asleep waiting for her, but shook her head at the thought. Isabella noticed her cell phone was next to Jasper and remembered that she'd thrown it on the couch before. She leaned over and reached out to grab it.

It only took a nanosecond.

And in that second she realized she was no longer stationary. She collided hard with the floor and yelped at the force. Her back throbbed. The impact knocked the wind from her and she struggled to draw in a breath. She began to panic when she realized there was a hand wrapped around her throat. Her lungs were on fire. She couldn't breathe at all.

 **A/N. Thoughts?**


	11. An

A/N

I'm sorry I haven't updated in ages.

I've broken my wrist badly back in February and for the last five months or so I've lived my miserable life in constant pain, waiting in endless lines at the hospitals, clinics and so. And since I'm oldschool and weird, I couldn't write– everything I write I write by hand first. Everything. I simply can't open my Word and put my thoughts in it.

Hope you forgive me.

Now I'm finally out of casts and orthotics, my penmanship is weird, strange and scratchy, but I'm finally able to write. I'll be back soon.

Please let me know if you're still with me.


End file.
